Demonic Doom
by Darkfire359
Summary: Sylar is having problems with demonic transformations. Mohinder searches for a cure. The very world may be at stake. What will win, Sylar's conscience or his ambition? Rated for violence and brain eating.
1. A Bad Aftertaste

Author's Note: While this is listed as adventure/supernatural, the chapters A Bad Aftertaste and Chasing Darkness were originally separate fics. They are humor/supernatural and suspense/supernatural respectively. While they were previously separate, reading them is vital to the plotline, although the mood was different. Chasing Darkness is chronologically first, but I wrote it after chapter 2. You can read it in either order. Also, this is in the same universe as my fic TNT Doesn't Cause Mushroom Clouds. But you don't have to read it. However, there are minor references.

"And yet another body has been found, gruesomely ripped apart with the skull torn open." Mohinder turned away as the camera zoomed in on the decapitated head.

"This is the sixth in a series of such murders. The police currently have no leads. Reports..." The geneticist clicked the TV off. He had seen awful things. Certainly more awful things than should have been expected from a mere science professor. But this was this too much.

As he reached to get a soothing biology book to calm his nerves, the phone rang.

"Hello?" he asked.

"Mohinder?" said a voice he knew far too well.

"Sylar?!"

"Yes. Please don't call 911 like last time. You know those recent murders, the ones with the bodies torn apart?"

"Yeah," the Indian answered, "I was just watching... Oh God Sylar. This is bad even for you. Did you do that?"

"No. Well, sort of."

"SORT OF! There's no sort of about that! Organs strewn across the ground... it made me want to throw up."

"That's probably the Indian food. Disgusting stuff."

"Not the point! Why did you feel the need to rip people open? Wasn't cutting their heads open and eating their brains enough?"

"Hey, if you're just going to yell at me, then I'll hang up and this problem will continue. And I don't eat brains. Well, I didn't.

"Oh God, I wasn't serious about that." Mohinder took a deep breath.

"So how can I help?"

"Okay, so I was hunting this girl with these awesome darkness powers. I found the power easily enough after looking at her brain. But only after I took it did I realize that that particular brain wasn't human. So there were some... side effects." Mohinder swallowed nervously. He did _not _need to hear about Sylar's serial killing exploits.

"The main one being that I turn into this evil demon with a hunger for human flesh. And brains," Sylar continued.

"You really are a monster."

"This is from the person who tied his friends up in cocoons. And you at least were mostly human. Don't talk to me about monsters. I go full demon. Claws, tail, giant black wings, the works."

"And the change is so sudden," Sylar explained, "I mean, I can remember what I did, but I don't really remember actually doing it. There is only the hunger... it is a hundred times worse than my intuitive aptitude."

"The worst part of it is, since I usually end up changing back right after eating the person, that I still have the taste of brain in my mouth. Believe me, not a yummy flavor."

"You've killed what, six people now, according to the news, and YOU THINK THE WORST PART IS A BAD AFTERTASTE?" Mohinder accused.

"What did I say about yelling? And it is a _really_ bad aftertaste." Mohinder took a break from feeling pure horror to simply shaking his head.

"I can't believe I went on a road with you."

"That was a fun road trip. Until the part where you tried to kill me. Well, actually that ended up being kind of fun too. Anyway, back to the point. I'd like you to be able to make some sort of injection to suppress the demon. I want to stop all this random killing and get back to nice, pre-planned killing."

"You know, if back in India, someone told me I would be having a casual conversation with a super-powered serial killer, I would have submitted them to an insane asylum."

"Oh, I'm not that bad."

"You killed my father! And attempted to kill me! Along with pretty much all of my friends!"

"It's evolution, Mohinder. Survival of the fittest. Those that are too weak for their powers don't deserve their powers."

"I can't believe you convince yourself with that sick logic."

"Key word: logic."

"I don't know why I should help someone like you. Deal with your own problems."

"Need I remind you that evil demons possessing me kill more than I do on my own?"

"Okay, fine. You can come over later today. Just don't kill anyone on your way."

"Was that rhyme intentional?" Sylar interrupted.

"No. Just be here around six o'clock. I'll need to take some blood samples. And have dinner before you go. I don't particularly like sharing my food with murderers."

"Don't worry. I don't have any reason to eat your gross Indian food. I swear, it almost tastes worse than brains."

"Goodbye, Sylar," Mohinder concluded, and hung up the phone. He massaged his temples, and wondered for the ump-teenth time now how he ever got into this.


	2. The Price of Power: Chapter 1

Author's Note: Just to say, this fic isn't religious or anything. I merely want to play with the idea of Sylar getting evil demon powers, and having to control them. If any of the characters get to OOC, just tell me how I can improve.

Sylar listened to the ticking of the clocks in his apartment. They were all in perfect harmony; not one was a second too fast or too slow. And by all he meant all 62 of them.

Sylar found that he compulsively collected clocks when he was stressed. And being a serial killer was often stressful. He had over 10 in the living room alone, not even counting the wristwatch from which his name originated.

Unfortunately, he could no longer wear it. Yet another side effect of his demonic transformation. His demon self was significantly larger than his human one, which meant the sudden growth would cause anything on him that was too small to break.

The net result was that not only was Sylar watchless, but he needed shoes sturdy enough to have claws in them, wing slits in the back of his shirt, and no baseball cap, lest it get stuck to his horns.

But he was going to do something about this. The serial killer looked in a random direction and saw that it was 5:30. Almost time for his meeting with Mohinder. He could only hope the geneticist wouldn't try to kill him again.

-----

Sylar arrived at the door to Mohinder's house, and knocked twice.

"Come in, Sylar." He could almost hear Mohinder internally wince at those words. So Sylar strutted in and casually sat down on the sofa, in a way meant for full annoyance.

"So what's new, Dr. Suresh?"

"Nothing," the Indian replyed, readying the needle.

"Oh come on," Sylar prompted, "Never heard of small talk?" He held out his arm as Mohinder none-too-gently took his blood sample. Sylar got up and followed Mohinder to the lab area, where the scientist ran some tests.

"This is like nothing I've ever seen before! Your blood...it's...it's"

"Black?" Sylar finished for him.

"Yeah," Mohinder breathed excitedly. He still hated Sylar, but that didn't mean he couldn't get excited about a never-before-seen discovery.

"This is truly extraordinary! It is almost like your red blood cells are covered in some sort of ink. Your white blood cells are nonexistent. But that's not all. There seems to be some type of foreign cell in your blood. They seem to be able to do..." Mohinder broke off as the blood melted through the slide it had been placed on like some sort of acid.

"That," he finished. Sylar gasped in pseudo-horror. In reality, he was fascinated. Though he had originally been negative on the whole demon thing, to possess (due to his rapid cellular regeneration) an endless supply of acid that didn't harm him was exciting.

"How can it do that?" he asked, trying not to sound too thrilled about it, "Why doesn't it burn through my skin?"

"Well," Mohinder said, "I'm not quite sure. Like I said, I've never seen anything like this before. But from what I can tell, you were correct about it not being human. In fact, I was only guessing that those foreign... things were cells. To an extent, it's great to make a new discovery such as this. But when your blood dissolved the slide, the "cells" increases the production of an acid I had noted earlier. It was almost as if they meant to do that.

"So whatever is in my blood stream could dissolve me whenever it wants to?" Sylar questioned.

"Not sure. I'm going to need to run some more tests. Could I get a mouth swab this time? It might be less dangerous."

"Sure," Sylar replied, running the provided q-tip through his mouth and getting a glob of saliva.

"I'll call with the test results tomorrow." Sylar nodded in agreement.

"Bye," he said, and left for the streets of New York.

-----

As he left the building, Sylar began to feel a familiar discomfort, one he knew all too well. Before anyone could notice, he ducked into a secluded alley. He braced himself for the transformation as his skin became dark scales, and feathered wings sprouted from his back. A reptilian tail swished behind him, and his now-forked tongue licked his fangs. Demon!Sylar opened its crimson eyes, and began the hunt.

-----

Sylar tried in vain to get the awful taste of blood and brains out of his mouth. Would it kill his demon self to drink some water afterward?

The telekinetic killer barely glanced at the body in front of him. It was far from an abnormal occurrence. Instead, he focused on the horrible flavor on his tongue, and his ruined shirt.

_You know what would be a good ability? _Sylar thought to no one in particular, _the power to clean anything instantly. _It would save having to consistently buy new shirts. It normally wasn't an enormous problem. Sylar could actually be a pretty clean killer; just a nice, telekinetic cut to the head, then some brain inspection would do the trick.

His demon self had no such restraint. There was blood everywhere on his persona. Even more then when it normally killed. As if it was angry that Sylar was trying to get rid of it. Which it probably was.

_Such a shame to get rid of, _Sylar thought, looking at the way his demon self had actually sliced open the skull. In addition to the powers of darkness Sylar had originally been hunting, the demon obviously possessed great strength and agility. Not to mention flight and razor sharp claws. So many powers would be lost... but Sylar couldn't control them anyway. The demon's hunger was unbearable. Coming from someone with intuitive aptitude, that really was saying something.

Then a thought occurred to him. Demon!Sylar had just eaten. Perhaps it would be controllable.

Still he hesitated. He did _not_ want to be eating anymore brains. But neither did he want to be robbed of a chance at the demon's power.

Sylar took a deep breath, and focused on the change. He kept it slow and controlled. The former watchmaker looked at his scaly hands. He moved one. It was under his control. But Sylar could still feel the demon's hunger for death, still plenty strong.

_Don't worry, _he thought to it, _I am far from opposed to killing. But it must be on my terms._

Sylar pulled a sticky note from his pocket. A little gift Mohinder had unknowingly given him. _Vera Johnson, 1483 Elm Street, apartment #24, New York, New York. _It said that she was a gymnast with completely perfect balance. A helpful skill given Peter Petrelli's odd love of rooftops. But not so helpful that if he lost control and ate her first it would be some great loss.

Spreading his wings, Sylar took off towards the address.

-----

He landed near the apartment, and walked, still in demon form, up the stairs to her door. Now he faced a problem. She wouldn't open up the door for a demon, and he doubted that he could kick down the door without getting his foot stuck in the wood.

Then an idea came to him. Exposing a claw, Sylar sliced across his left arm. It healed quickly, but the result was that he now possessed a fresh supply of acid. With his blood, he drew an oval shape on the door, large enough for him to step through. Doing so was actually quite easy. The demonic form was resistant to pain, and with the healing, it was possible to replenish his supply as easily as painting.

The acid blood melted through the wood, and with a slight push, the shape fell into the room. Sylar folded his wings, and went inside.

"Hello?" he called, attempting a Texas accent that would have sounded quite convincing as a human. With his demonic voice, he just sounded like a dying pig.

"Who's there?" a woman called. She came into view, but stopped upon seeing him. She made some terrified and unintelligible sounds.

"Not very good dying words," he told her, his natural demonic voice sounding nice and evil. Crossing his claws that, like regeneration, telekinesis worked in demon form, he pointed a finger at Vera, and she was pushed up against a wall. He began to cut across her forehead, and she screamed. Sylar felt unbelievable pleasure at this.

For a moment, he was startled that the pain of others produced such a euphoric effect in him. Was he really that evil? But Sylar shook himself out of his hesitation, and returned to cutting open his latest victim's head.

After finishing, Sylar nearly leaped to the girl, opening up her brain. His mouth watered in anticipation.

Sylar could barely contain himself as he searched her brain for the connection. It looked so delicious... Finally, he located the connection, and granted himself the ability of perfect balance. Task completed, Sylar gave into the hunger. He devoured her brain, then ripped open the heart, eating it as well.

The entire meal was finished in the span of a few minutes. Licking the remaining brain juices from the skull, he contemplated his next actions. Both of his hungers were temporarily sated. He couldn't return to his human form, because there was a big difference in how he felt about the taste of brains now and how he would feel then.

Maybe he could just scare some people. That had always been fun. He reminisced back to stealing Claire's power, and to when he had locked her and her family in Primatech. Maybe he could find some high school cheerleaders to scare.

Using his own blood, Sylar melted the window, and flew off, devising his evil plans along the way.

-----

Even though it was past midnight, Mohinder continued to study Sylar's DNA sample. The "cells" were also present in the saliva. Despite contact with open air, they seemed to still be alive. They were even moving, but Mohinder could see no cilia, flagella, or pseudopods to speak of.

"Ding!" Mohinder looked up from the microscope he was examining. His coffee was done. The Indian got up and took a soothing sip of it. Then he went back to his desk and sat down.

Mohinder reached for the knob on the microscope and felt something wet. Looking at his hand, Mohinder realized it was the saliva sample he had been examining. It had definitely _not _been there before. Which meant that Sylar's demon-saliva could move on its own.

The geneticist rushed to the sink, remembering what had happened with Sylar's blood. But it had already absorbed into his skin.

_Well, my hand isn't dissolving, _Mohinder thought, _maybe I'll be okay. _But he was wrong.


	3. The Price of Power: Chapter 2

Author's Note: At this point, I have decide to make my whole Demonic Doom series into one fic. It will keep people from having to search for them separately, and hopefully save a lot of effort. I will eventually make a story that details Sylar tormenting the cheerleaders, but it's not relevant to the plot, and I just don't feel like it now.

Vera Johnson stood in line at the New York General Bank. Or she appeared to. In reality, it was Sylar. He knew he was too impatient for a normal job, and didn't want to go back to the timepiece restoration. The result was that he became the perfect identity thief.

Originally, he had used Bob Bishop's ability to turn objects into gold. However Sylar didn't possess any actual jewelry to transmute, and started to get suspicious when he sent things like 100% gold forks. Plus, they were rip off artists, so he didn't get much anyway.

Anyway, he eventually got up to the bank teller, and gave the person Vera's card. He was told that she had $30,000 in her account. Hmm. She must have been a fairly good gymnast. Too bad nobody cared now.

"I'm buying a new car," he (she) said to the teller, "so I'd like to withdraw all $30,000."

"And you want this all in cash?"

"Yes. I like getting things the old fashioned way." Sylar added a slight accent for effect.

"Well, okay," the teller replied. She brought up some papers for him to sign, and asked for some more identification. Luckily, they didn't have a personal security question.

Sylar pocketed the 300 hundred-dollar bills, and walked away.

He should have every reason to be happy with his new-found wealth, but he was not. Yesterday, Sylar had killed someone.

Not that killing people bothered him. All the time, Sylar killed for power, for his hunger, for a more perfect deployment of his plans. He did not kill for the fun of it.

Well, sometimes he did, but it was the revenge, not the killing, that brought him pleasure. Last night, during his 'scare the cheerleaders' game, he had killed a person that had absolutely no relevance to his plans. He had killed just for the sake of killing.

In a way, he was glad to feel guilt. Sylar hadn't felt that since he killed Elle. It reminded him that he was human, and not just some horrible monster.

At least, for now. His demon half had little to no conscience. Actually, just no conscience. And he was slowly losing control to it. So, naturally Sylar was a bit stressed. He then decided to do what he always did when he was stressed: buy a clock.

-----

"Ding" came the sound of a door chime. Rodney Hallings looked up from the counter. Bored, he popped his bubble gum. It was a wonder this suck-shack got any business at all.

"Get a job," his mother had told him. He had replied that he didn't know where. So she convinced her weird friend to hire him at a freaking clock shop. The only girls he ever met here were over 60.

Hmm. It looked like whoever had just come in actually didn't look like they belonged with dinosaurs. Freakish eyebrows, though. Rodney swore his gerbil could build a nest in one of them. And the guy seemed generally interested in the clocks. The teenager groaned. Watching other people's interest in these timepieces of crap only sickened him more.

"Do you have a problem?" Eyebrow Dude asked.

"No," Rodney replied boredly. Hmm. Was boredly a word?

Eyebrow Guy's head twitched a bit, as though he'd felt some sort of tingle, then continued to browse. Rodney continued to just sit there.

Eventually, the weird dude settled on a pure black clock.

_Stupid, _Rodney thought, _I can barely see the numbers._

"You sure you want that one?" he asked, feigning interest, "It'll be hard to tell the time."

"That's okay," Eyebrow Dude explained, "I already own 62." He walked towards the door.

"Stupid weirdo with his stupid clocks," Rodney muttered under his breath. The eyebrow guy suddenly turned. How could he have possibly heard? And why were his irises glowing red? And he didn't have claws a second ago. Rodney was unable to think anymore, mainly due to the fact that it was difficult to think after head removal.

-----

Sylar stood in front of the check-out desk, his hands soaked in blood. He shouldn't have done this. He hadn't meant to turn into the demon. Neither should he have spontaneously changed; he had eaten twice in the past 24 hours. It had been a full week after his first transformation until he changed again.

Yet the thing was, he had only killed the clock-hating teenager, not eaten him. Sylar hadn't even fully transformed. As far as he knew, the only change was that he had grown claws. And of course, Sylar had heard the words. All of his senses, except touch, had grown sharper.

He looked again at the body before him. He would have to dispose of it somewhere else, or his favorite clock shop might get closed down. But where to put it?

Sylar checked a clock. 2:37. A bit to bright out to dispose of it secretly. He could transform again and eat the whole thing...

No. Sylar didn't want to resort to that. He forced a shudder through himself, trying to conceal the fact that he was not naturally disgusted by the thought.

Maybe he could animate it using telekinesis, at least until Sylar came across some dark alley. But then he'd have to somehow reattach the head, and cleaning up the blood was not a fun prospect. He immediately tossed out the idea of flushing it down the toilet. The serial killer paced.  
_  
_What did normal murderers do after killing someone? He chuckled softly to himself. _Normal murderers. _Strange what he had become. But Sylar still considered it.

Then he snapped his fingers. _Body bags._ If he could find a large garbage bag or something, no one would look at Sylar twice.

Rummaging through the back room of the clock shop, he eventually found one big enough. The killer stuffed the boy into the black plastic bag, then dumped some actual trash inside in case someone got too curious. He then tied the bag up, cleaned off the counter and his hands, and stepped outside.

Once there, he was incredibly conscious of the people around him. Did they suspect? Sylar had no way of knowing. He never really had to dispose of a body before. The seconds seemed like hours as he gradually made his way to the dumpsters.

Using telekinesis to help lift the body up, Sylar dumped it like the garbage he had disguised it as. For a moment, he felt remorse. How much had human life lost its value?

He shook his head, and walked back to the clock shop. It didn't matter. It was only a step in a process. A process he had gone through so many times.

After wiping off the counter, Sylar picked up the clock he had purchased. Stroking its rim, he let its past flow into him. Hmm, not made in China. That was a plus. Hand-painted. This one had been sold to the store individually, not with other clocks. It was special. He liked clocks that were special. But you couldn't tell that from looking at this one. It was pure black, with the numbers only slightly raised. How easy for it to just blend in.

Smiling, Sylar decided to rearrange his set of red clocks to form a circle around this one. It would be the pupil of the created "eye". Then it would be noticed. Such a shame when what was special went unnoticed. Bad things could happen then. A stray thought jumped into his head. Hadn't Mohinder said that he would contact Sylar with his progress? Maybe he should check up on the geneticist, just to see if everything was okay.

-----

Pain. The pain was everywhere, in every vein of his body. Veins that, had Mohinder been distracted from the pain long enough to notice, were showing black even through his dark skin.

All Mohinder wanted to do was die. Every cell in his body was burning up, being attacked. The demonic virus, or whatever was inside him, didn't let him go unconscious, go numb, or even have a dull ache. Oh, how Mohinder wished he had something simple like a stomachache. He had dreamed about getting a migraine, simply because the pain would be less. So Mohinder had repeatedly banged his head against the floor, hoping to lose consciousness. Unfortunately, he was still awake and aware, only less capable of coming up with a good plan to kill himself.

Somewhere in his line of vision, which Mohinder wasn't paying much attention to because of the whole pain thing, his door opened. Someone walked in, then looked around trying to find him.

"Sylar?" Mohinder managed to get out. The figure walked over, but he really couldn't make out too many details.

"What happened, Mohinder?" The voice was definitely Sylar's, though that was definitely a tone he hadn't heard before. Concern? He couldn't tell, given his situation.

"Sylar, please... kill me," his voice shook, "Don't care... take my power... treaty meaningless." And he truly didn't care. Sylar could destroy the world if only he would kill him. Mohinder saw an index finger rise into a familiar position... and cut open his hand.

Some distant part of him registered that it was painful. But it just blended in. Until Sylar knelt over him and closed his eyes. Then the pain got even worse.

Mohinder felt his blood being forced to flow faster, causing him more agony in the same way a river going faster erodes more of its banks. His vision nearly pure red, he managed to see black blood bubbling up through his palm. Gradually, the pain faded. Sylar wiped the last of the evil contagion off of his hand.

"You saved me." Mohinder hadn't expected this.

"You could have just taken my power. Maybe there is good in you after all." Sylar turned away, clearly not agreeing.

"I've killed four people since the last time we spoke." Then Mohinder's unexpected savior turned and walked away.


	4. Chasing Darkness

Author's Note 2: Just a note for anyone wondering about all of Sylar's clocks, I'm making a fic called 62 clocks. I've decided to put it under general and humor, though the humor is light in amount. If anyone has any suggestions, review or pm me. Remember, this chapter takes place chronologically before all the other ones. It is about three weeks beforehand.

"Tick, tock."

"Tick, tock."

Sylar focused on the sound of the restaurant's clock. Their only clock. What kind of sick, twisted people had only one clock? He would have killed the owners for such an offense, but Sylar was on a mission. Or, more accurately, a stakeout. A very boring stakeout.

Which was precisely why Sylar was entertaining himself by listening to a clock. A clock that was 2 seconds off. He gritted his teeth. An extremely boring stakeout.

At least it would be worth it to catch this prey, who was rumored to have the power of shadow. Naturally, she was hard to find. The only tip that he had was that he ate at The Obsidian Cafe, which was why he was here now, in LeMars, Iowa, sitting there.

LeMars itself was a small town. People only went there for one of two reasons: to stop on the way to the vacation haven of Okoboji, Iowa, or to visit Blue Bunny Ice Cream's headquarters. Or, of course, to hunt down superpowers.

"Would you like some coffee?" a passing waitress asked.

"No thank ya, Ma'am," Sylar replied, tipping his hat and falling into a Midwestern accent.

"Okie dokie then." He turned back to staring uninterestedly at a salt shaker, and by chance, his gaze passed over a booth he hadn't noticed before. Which was odd, because he had completely scanned the place 7 times in the past half-hour. It wasn't an odd table, though. Just two girls, barely older than Claire, sat there.

One of them, who was laughing at something, had dark amber-colored hair. The other, who was just sitting their, her entire existence dripping with melancholy, had raven-colored hair which was just dark enough to be considered black. Although the lighting was no different where she sat, somehow the black-haired girl was unnoticeable, her visage faded. Like her existence was shrouded in shadow. Sylar grinned. Perfect.

He watched them until they got their receipt, his gaze always being pulled away from the black-haired girl. The brown-haired girl pulled her friend into a hug, which she returned without motivation. Looking at their facial features side-by-side, Sylar decided they were actually sisters.

A perfect opportunity arose when the brown-haired girl skipped away, shouting goodbyes.

"Bye Sylafra," he heard the black-haired girl say. Sylafra. Nice name. Too bad she would soon be an only child.

His suspected target walked out after her, but no longer with her. Sylar quickly followed. He made sure to keep the black-haired girl directly in his line of sight, knowing that to lose her would mean even more time at the horrible restaurant with one clock. She eventually walked into an alleyway (well, behind a building, it was Iowa) and turned around.

"I know you're there. Whoever you are, you don't know who you are dealing with."

"Oh, I think I do, Newola." Her surprise at his knowledge of her name quickly faded. She raised her arms, and shadows came up from the ground. The wrapped around his arms and legs, and he felt himself being pulled into the darkness.

Newola moved her hand again, and a dark portal appeared in midair. Sylar expected something to come out of it. Nothing did. Fortunately, Newola's confusion at this lasted longer than Sylar's. Using Jesse Murphey's power of sound manipulation, he shot sonic waves at her, and she fell backwards. This temporarily disrupted her power, and Sylar telekinetically pulled himself out of the shadows.

As soon as he did this, a wave of darkness fell over him. Sylar smiled. He had fought enemies before without seeing them. He remembered a nearby window. Telekinetically pulling from that general direction, the glass shattered. He levitated the pieces up, and shot them in a forward arc. A cry of pain came slightly to his left.

Quick as a cheetah, Sylar shot a powerful bolt of lightning towards the sound. The darkness faded. Sylar walked up to Newola's unconscious form.

"Not so strong now, are you? Don't worry; I soon will be." He began to cut open her head.

It felt a bit strange to do it without the screaming. He usually had his victims fully conscious. Nevertheless, Sylar examined her brain carefully, and soon found the connection. He immediately replicated it in his own mind.

Just as he was about to leave, Sylar noticed something. In the place where the glass shard had struck her (around the shoulder) there was no blood. He frowned. That wasn't supposed to happen. He then looked at her forehead. There was normal, red, blood there.

Wait a second. It wasn't quite normal. It could pass a glancing look, but on closer inspection, the consistency wasn't quite right. Neither was the way it bled out, in almost a perfectly straight line. It reminded him of the fake blood from movies. But Newola was definitely dead.

Then he noticed another thing. After touching his victims' brains, Sylar would naturally have touched some of their brain juices, even if he had managed to evade getting blood on his hands. But now, his hands were completely dry. It couldn't have evaporated that fast.

Telekinetically this time, he pulled apart Newola's brain. To his chagrin, Sylar found that the entire part lower than where he normally searched was blackened. Whatever this was, it wasn't human. It wasn't even superhuman. That part of her brain had somehow been corrupted. Not destroyed, just somehow twisted beyond normality.

Horrified, he looked down at his hands, which he realized must have absorbed her brain juices. Whatever had happened to her, it was going to happen to him. And he got the feeling that whatever thing had done this to her had planned it that way.


	5. The Price of Power: Chapter 3

Author's Note: I would like to make a few comments about my OC of Sylafra. I normally have an extreme hatred of OCs, but her ability becomes a key plot point. She is not one of those Mary Sue characters that is perfect, takes over the plot, and has a romance with one of the main characters. I originally developed her for my own book idea, which was actually before I had ever watched Heroes (so her name actually isn't related to Sylar's.) I don't think she'll cause any problems, but if you think she is taking up too much of the plot (which I don't think she will), you can review or pm me to complain about it.

"Hello?" Sylar called out. He walked across the empty New York streets, searching for someone, anyone. But no one appeared.

He continued walking. Where was everyone? What had happened? Even the sun was gone; every part of the sky had a thick cloud cover, shrouding the world in a perpetual state of gray.

"Hello?" he called again. Somehow the thought of being alone terrified him more than any torture The Company could come up with.

Everything was silent, too. Except for his footsteps. On a normal day, they would blend into the footsteps of the hundreds of other New Yorkers he passed. But there was no one else.

He passed between two buildings. Still searching for other people, Sylar was caught unaware as a force suddenly pushed him against the wall. Face squashed into the bricks, Sylar was only momentarily relieved when he was flipped over. Because he was face to face with... himself.

"Hello human," his counterpart said. He was wearing one of Sylar's black trenchcoats, but somehow he made it look even blacker than usual. He also had red eyes.

"You are probably wondering why exactly you are in this situation. I will explain to you. It is because you are weak. Too weak to even get a power right in front of you." As he said this, Sylar's double nearly snarled. Sylar felt himself pushed further back into the wall, nearly being crushed.

"Do you really want to be weak, human?" Sylar looked down, and realized he was wearing a sweatervest. He wasn't Sylar. Not powerful, confident, Sylar. He was just Gabriel. Gabriel, whose own mother didn't think he was anything special.

"The weak die. You yourself have stated these consequences. Do not forget them." His counterpart flicked a finger, and "Gabriel" was filled with pain in every vein in his body. Horrible, acidic, pain. The world faded away, and Sylar woke up from his nightmare. Yet he still felt the pain linger in his blood.

-----

Mohinder was staying up late. Again. It probably wasn't the best idea, given that he had recently been tortured by some sort of demon saliva, but he just had to get this research done.

He was trying to figure out Sylar's demon problem again. But this time, Mohinder was playing it safe. He had decided to not do anything with anything that had a single nucleotide of Sylar's DNA in it. So he was just using google to search up demons.

So far, the geneticist hadn't found much. All the articles either were about either religion or video games. Mohinder sighed. To uncover the problem, he would have to use more unorthodox methods.

Getting out of his computer chair, he walked over to a locked cupboard. Mohinder punched in the combination, and opened it up. Inside was a small box of various items from his time working with The Company. Mohinder recalled the phone conversation from yesterday. Had this entire thing begun only a day ago? It must have. Anyway, Sylar had mentioned the transformations started after killing a girl with darkness powers. If he could locate where she had lived, he might be able to find out the information he needed. He pulled out a disc labeled Tracking Software, then stuck it into his computer. The application came up.

With it, Mohinder was eventually able to hack into the airlines' databases. Typing in Zackery Kwint, Sylar's current false identity, he learned that Sylar had airline tickets to Le Mars Municipal Airport for exactly three weeks and one day ago, and had then used the tickets back two weeks and five days ago.

The next step was far simpler. Mohinder was able to google Le Mar's newspaper, the Daily Sentinel, and find the obituaries page. There was only one entry during that time-frame, and it was the only one in that entire month for anyone under 40. Newola Eronol, who had been 23. He found the names of her parents, but neither of them even lived in the same state. Her sister, however did.

Sylafra Eronol. Unfortunately, the obituary entry did not list her address. But her name was rather uncommon, and upon googling it, Mohinder found that the only entries were from a chemical company that listed her as one of their top chemists. It listed her phone number, but Mohinder did not want to take the chance of her just hanging up. He used some more Company software, typed in her phone number, and found her address.

Feeling suspiciously like a stalker, Mohinder booked himself some plane tickets for the next day. Or, seeing as it was 2:00 in the morning, later that day. Then he fell asleep at his computer desk.

------

"Ohmmmmm....s equals volts over amps." Sylar laughed, thoroughly ruining his attempt to meditate. Yes, nerd jokes were awesome. Sylar was first and foremost a serial killer, but he was also a nerd. He liked to repair watches, which led to repairing computers, which led to building/programming his own computers, which led to a well-deserved geeky reputation during high school.

Sylar's joy was short lived. He remembered why he was meditating in the first place. It was because of the stupid demon problems. He felt the sudden urge to buy a clock. Relax, he told himself, clocks are not the solution to all problems. Besides, he had just gotten one yesterday. And that had turned out so well.

Meditating while levitating was a better alternative. Using telekinesis focused his mind, and could isolate him from the world. But whether in a positive or a negative way, Sylar was distracted, unable to stay still. Perhaps some regular training would help.

He walked to a cabinet, and got out a large bag of marbles. Then he dumped them all onto the floor. He floated them up simultaneously. Closing his eyes, Sylar tried to discern their size from his telekinesis, so he could sort them.

It was part of a project he had been working on for several months now. He called it YAWGA (Yet Another Way to Gain Abilities). In addition to intuitive aptitude and empathic mimicry, Sylar had theorized that he could enhance his telekinesis in the same way Peter and Matt had enhanced their abilities. He could already levitate and psychically control people's actions. Currently, he was working on being able to "feel" his surroundings through using telekinesis on them. After that, if he proved able to use telekinesis on an entire area, Sylar might even be able to "stop time" in certain places.

But that was only the beginning. Forcefield creation, terrakinesis, aquakinesis, and so much more. Just thinking about it made him salivate. Sylar opened his eyes, and smiled. He had been able to sense the size difference in the marbles without even touching him.

Telekinetic sensing: just one more power under his belt. The demon was wrong. He wasn't weak. Sylar could get whatever powers he wanted. He had only been bothered by... lack of control. Yes. That was it.

Writing off his conscience like a misfiled paper, Sylar walked back to his bed, and lay down to go back to sleep. He needed to see the demon again, and have a few choice words with that part of himself.

-----

Mohinder looked from the address on his sheet of paper to the house in front of him. He had been on three plane flights (two of which had been delayed), lost his luggage, and hadn't even been given airline snacks. Well, that was what happened when you flew United.

Anyway, Mohinder was finally about to confront the one person who could possibly tell him about the demon possessing Sylar. He rang the doorbell. The door opened, revealing... one of the most weirdly dressed people in the world.

Even though it was late summer, she was dressed in several layers of clothing, including but not limited to gloves, boots, a jacket, and a cloak. All of which were flamboyantly colored. And had numerous pockets in them. Pockets that, while not bulging, where clearly occupied.

"Sylafra Eronol?" he asked.

'Yep," she replied, smiling. Mohinder paused for a moment, before deciding to get right to the point.

"Do you know anything about demonic transformations?" Her smile vanished. She tried to shut the door, but Mohinder put out a foot.

"Listen, my name is Mohinder Suresh. I..."

"Mohinder Suresh? As in Chandra Suresh, author of Activating Evolution? So you aren't with the newspaper or police? Come on in."

Mohinder stepped inside, and found that her house might have been even weirder than her attire. He was a scientist, and a rather dedicated one at that. But he didn't have beakers and test tubes in his living room. As he was thinking this, a random glass orb resting on a shelf exploded.

"Oops, sorry about that. Those things happen sometimes," Sylafra explained oh-so-reassuringly.

"Would you like to sit down, maybe have some pomegranate-mango juice?" she asked him.

"What?" Mohinder questioned.

"Pomegranate-mango juice. Or would you prefer some grape-kiwi juice?"

"Er, no," he replied, "Where can you even get that kind?"

"Oh, I mix them myself. I mix everything. I combine everything. And everything I don't mix or combine, I atomically rearrange." She beamed as if this were some kind of mission statement for her, which it probably was.

"Great."

"So..." she began, "do you have an ability? Like the kind your dad talked about in his book?" Mohinder was a bit surprised at her bluntness.

"Yes. Super strength and agility."

"Okay. Can you lift up my couch? I lost something under there a while ago," she explained.

"Sure." Mohinder walked to her living room sofa, and lifted one side off of the ground. He promptly had slime explode in his face. Wiping it off with his other hand, he saw that Sylafra was picking up some sort of metal object.

"My waffle iron!" she exclaimed, "Oh, I thought I had lost your waffletasticness forever." Mohinder considered asking Sylafra how she had lost a waffle iron under her couch, and why some sort of slime had exploded on his face, but he decided against it. Some things were just to weird for words.

"Sylafra," he said trying to get to his original point, "I need to talk to you about your sister." She looked up from hugging the waffle iron.

"Newola was awesome," Sylafra explained, "and she wasn't in a cult or anything. That's what the media here thinks. Nothing ever happens, except ice cream, so the press gets really hyped up whenever they see anything remotely strange. And Newola's death... with her head cut open and everything... that is the epitome of abnormal." Mohinder gave a weak smile.

"It's better than New York. There, you can have 6... no, 10 far more gruesome murders by the same person and people barely notice."

"Um, anyway, did Newola have an ability?"

"Yes," Sylafra replied, "she could control darkness. And I don't mean just controlling the lighting of places. She could give the darkness a physical form. A few months ago, she started to be able to summon creatures out of the darkness. Then she started to be able to go through the portals that she summoned them out of. I don't know exactly where she went." Sylafra sighed, as if regretting something.

"Then, she actually became physically changed. Newola could morph into a form that was a mixture of human and those demon creatures she summoned." Sylafra turned to Mohinder,

"But you already know that, don't you?"

"Yes," he admitted.

"How? And why do you want to know more?"

"Well," Mohinder began, "I have this friend. No, really more of an acquaintance. Actually, I hate him. He constantly kills or tries to kill the people close to me. I think he killed your sister." Mohinder paused for her to say something, to get angry, to cry, to swear revenge. Sylafra just sat there, waiting for him to continue.

"His name is Sylar." She remained silent.

Mohinder walked into the kitchen, and got out a large pitcher. He filled it up with just barely enough water so that the bottom was covered.

"This," he explained, "is the jug of goodliness. Most people have a full jug. Sylar has about this much good in him." Sylafra looked into the pitcher.

"Wow," she finally said.

"And that small amount of good is about the only thing that keeps Sylar from destroying the world. That and a treaty some other superpowered people and I put together, but Sylar could easily break it if he wanted to. He's immortal, invulnerable, and able to flip a tank just by pointing at it."

"Sylar takes peoples abilities. That's how he got so powerful. Everything your sister could do, he can do now. And whatever demonic changes happened to your sister, I think are happening to Sylar in an even more extreme way. Whatever pathetic excuse for a conscience he once had is drying up. I need your knowledge to help me defeat him, or at least keep him from causing armageddon."

"I see," Sylafra replied. She looked at him in the eyes, determination evident.

"I'll do whatever I can to help. He's in New York, right?"

"Yes," Mohinder said cautiously, "but you can't go looking for revenge. I tried that once. It didn't work out well. Quite frankly, I'm surprised I'm still alive."

"Sure, sure," she said, leaping off elsewhere in her weird house. Mohinder sighed, then sat down to wait.

-----

In less than half an hour, Sylafra ran back into the living room, startling Mohinder, who had been reading a book.

"I'm all packed!" she exclaimed. The geneticist looked up. She didn't have a suitcase or anything, just a small backpack.

"Really?" he asked scrupulously.

"Yep. I bet you've been wondering a bit about my ability." Mohinder blinked. Actually, he hadn't. After a couple of explosions, it seemed best to just not ask.

Without waiting for an answer, Sylafra swung her pack around, and opened up the main pouch. Mohinder peered in.

And saw her waffle iron. Along with about two weeks worth of clothes, a few dozen books, a hairdryer, a machete, four pairs of army boots, about a gallon of hand lotion, a jug of pomegranate-mango juice, and a watermelon. But that was only what he could see.

Mohinder looked at the outside of her backpack. Then the inside. Then the outside again.

"It's bigger on the inside. Are you a timelord or something?"

"The correct term would be timelady. But no." She appeared to ponder something for a moment.

"Using your dad's fancy terminology, I believe my power would be classified as atomic manipulation. Not only can I create compounds that no one would believe existed, but I can also manipulate the fabric of space, to an extent. I can't do anything about time, though. I also have a bit of... chemical understanding, or knowing how to manipulate the elements and compounds, but I don't think it's that strong. Not all of the explosions are intentional."

"So..." Mohinder trailed off, "I'm guessing you can't get through airline security?"

-----

Sylar stood once again in the empty streets of New York. He looked down. Good. No sweatervest.

He strode forward confidently. As Sylar. Not Gabriel. He had power. He was in control, and this time not even Satan himself could intimidate him.

Remembering the area from his previous dream, he walked the same path, and turned into the same alley. Telekinetically sensing the area around him, Sylar spun around to face his demon before it could surprise him again.

"Congratulations," it said with traces of sarcasm.

"You. Who are you?"

"In a sense, I am you," Sylar's double began, "but I'm guessing you came here for more than riddles."

"However would you have guessed? Taking control of my body... I can't say I'm too excited about that. I do not like being part of a game unless I choose to play."

"Hmm. I didn't do anything that you wouldn't have done, with a little less restraint. There's only a difference of," his counterpart paused, showing its fangs and running a pointed tongue across them, "taste."

"You still haven't answered my original question. And let me add to that. What are you?"

"Fine. But that ruins the mystery of it all. My name, for your human purposes, is Absero. And as for what I am, that changes a lot. In essence, however, I am a Noloch."

"Which is...?"

"A night demon. As opposed to a fire demon, ice demon, et cetera." Sylar nodded, beginning to understand.

"Why are you doing..." he spun around as a fire alarm sounded from the waking world. Turning back around, Sylar wasn't entirely surprised to find Absero gone. In his place, there was only a mirror.


End file.
